Crashing Souls

by Cynthia A. Rodriguez

  “She’s right. I loved you both like brothers. But we thought that, when you woke up, you’d be too traumatized to live your life. And when you had amnesia, we figured it would be best if you didn’t know. So, we removed all things Greg because, the way we saw it, if you saw him, it could trigger something in you. Give you your memories back.”

  I thought back to the pictures at the lake house.

  “So you deliberately withheld things in the hopes that I would never remember. You would sacrifice my memory of your brother!” I shouted at Tracey. I shoved my hands in my hair and bent at the waist, trying not to freak out. I was fighting for Dexter and Greg and it was too confusing. When I straightened, I looked up at Tracey.

  “And the pictures at the lake house? That was Greg?” Tracey nodded and came closer to me.

  “I love you, Dex. So much. I couldn’t love you more if I gave birth to you myself. We only wanted to protect you,” she whispered.

  “You protected me at what cost, Aunt Tracey?” I yelled. I walked out, slamming the door. A few seconds later, I walked back in.

  “Did Noa know?”

  Ralph shook his head. “She only knew you had amnesia. She knew Greg but not that we…no one spoke to her about this.”

  “Great,” I said, holding out my arms. “The only honest person and I broke her fucking heart.” I stormed out of the house again.

  •••

  I sat at the park I’d brought Noa to before. I couldn’t bring myself to sit on the swing set. Panic filled my throat like bile. She was fading from my memories. It hadn’t even been a month and I was forgetting the intimate details—the ones that belonged to her and I alone.

  “Isn’t that what we tried to avoid, sir?” A voice came from behind me, startling me. An old man walked up, sitting beside me on the bench. “I expected more from you, you know.”

  He shifted so that he was facing me, and the lines from age and laughter on his face did nothing to soothe the fear running through me.

  “Are you here to take me back?” I asked. My quiet dreams hadn’t soothed my worry. I knew he’d come around sooner or later. We had a deal, after all.

  He laughed, shaking his head.

  “Heavens, no. I should but I’m trusting that you haven’t given up on our Noa.” He sat back. “More than that, I’m hoping she hasn’t given up on you. Because, Dexter, what do you think is in store for you if she has? You think you can live a semblance of a full life without her? You are better off letting me take you if you think that.”

  “It just got so hard.” I ran my hands over my face, stressed out.

  “But you love her. You came back for her. You had me convinced that you could grow through love and share that magic with the world. I witness heartbreak every day. I’ve witnessed more hardship than you could even imagine. But I wanted more for you. I wanted love and I gave you a second chance, something I never do. Your life, without her? You will be an aimless man. Forever searching and never finding.”

  Somehow I was staring at an older me, sitting in a restaurant alone. I felt the loneliness radiating toward me, and I knew it wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted Noa next to me. I needed her.

  “She’ll never speak to me again. I took all of her faith in me and I destroyed it. There is no fixing it.”

  “You humans think life should be so easy. She is one of the rare ones who understood that it takes work. Win her again, Dexter. You’ve found her twice. And in every life before this one. Find her again.”

  I sat back up and looked at the end of the empty bench. He was gone.

  I pulled out my keys and unlocked my car, getting in and heading to the only place I knew to look for what I was missing. The front door was open when I got there and I climbed the steps, knocking on apartment number six. When Tim opened the door a crack to see who it was, I pushed past him and he stumbled back.

  “Where is she?” I opened her bedroom door, noticing how bare it looked. The usual things were there but gone were her easel and brushes. Her paintings remained but when I looked closer, almost all of her clothes were missing. I whirled around, grabbing Tim by his collar.

  “Where is she?”

  “Get your hands off me, Dex. She’s gone. Left while you were off living life.”

  “Don’t act like you’re not part of the problem,” I sneered.

  “But she was fine! She was coping and she was sober. Then you came around and you became her trigger. You made her want and then you fucking let her down!” He pushed me and I fell into her door. I deserved it because I’d hurt his sister.

  “Are you going to tell me or am I going to have to find her for myself?” I stood and faced him.

  “You’re going to get the hell out before I call the cops. I hope you never find her. If you do, you’ll just get her killed.”

  I pushed past him again, clipping his shoulder and walked out. I prayed Tim’s words never came true.

  When I got in my car, I hit my steering wheel, not bothering to wipe the angry tears that slid down my cheeks. Noa could run. She could hide. But if she never came back, I would be lost forever.

  We have played alongside millions of lovers, shared in the same Shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell—Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

  —Rabindranath Tagore, “Unending Love”

  NOA

  Chapter 24

  Many people thought red was the color of anger. Just as they thought blue was the color of sadness. They envisioned red signifying heat and blue signifying cold.

  These people didn’t realize that fire, at its hottest, was blue.

  I brought my brush to the white canvas, spreading a shade of the color in question. Catalina blue. It wasn’t always that I let this color take over so much of my canvas. I would fight the urge to give in to the variations: periwinkle blue, independence blue, midnight blue, navy blue. Substitute it for greens, purples, or, God forbid, a gaudy pink. But red…red would never take the place of blue.

  The music playing in the background was especially heartbreaking as I brought more color onto the canvas until the original white was a distant memory. I painted by heart, my heart guiding my brush strokes, either short and quick or long and deliberate.

  This particular piece was a release. Maybe I’d sell it. Maybe I’d lean it against the wall of my studio, keeping it for myself until I couldn’t bear to look at it anymore. It was tough being locked away with my sins. And I tended to leave them all on my canvases.

  I swirled the stained brushes around in the cup of warm water that I was sure had cooled. I walked over to the sink, dumping them inside before leaving a note for the cleaning lady to make sure they were cleaned before next week. I didn’t feel an itch to create in that temperament again. But I knew by next week, the itch would become an obsession and I’d be dragging my pitiful ass back in here for another session with my sins.

  I’d come back to the clay before I came back to the paint. It wasn’t as personal. My heart didn’t guide my fingers when throwing a pot. My artistic passion did. I knew the difference, even if the world didn’t.

  I gathered the sweaty mess of clothes I’d worn on the run over from my apartment and shoved them into the washer. Although I was done painting for the night, I wasn’t quite ready to go. I dumped the liquid detergent into the machine and grabbed a cold can of ginger ale from the mini fridge.

  Taking a sip, I looked around the largely empty studio. There was a reason I set it up this way. There was a shower and a bed for those late nights that I couldn’t make it home, but there was no comfort here. It was supposed to make me want to go home. Sadly, I wouldn’t be going tonight.

  I set the can down on the counter and flicked the lights off. My eyes went to the digital clock near the door. Three in the morning. Later than I thought. I trudged over to the full-sized mattress. Paint covered a lot of my arms, and I was sure I’d find more in my hair and on my face in the morning. Messy heart that I had. I settled beneath the
comforter and looked up at the ceiling. The windows caught shadows cast from the streetlights, and I wriggled in an attempt to get more comfortable.

  I wondered how many more nights I’d be falling asleep like this.

  Pretending.

  Until it all stopped and I didn’t have to worry about pretending anymore. Or fighting. Or breathing.

  •••

  It was a little past six at night when I finally caught a cab home. With the paint and clay off of my body, I realized how hungry I was. I paid the cabbie and looked up at my apartment building.

  If only those people back home could see what had become of me.

  Seattle was beautiful and messy—a chaos that matched my constant internal struggle. After seven years here, I figured I’d be used to it. But, it seemed, Seattle wasn’t something to get used to. It was a chameleon of different cultures and textures of life. And I was smack dab in the middle of it.

  I thought back on my high school days with a sense of nostalgia as I unlocked my apartment door. Would my life be all that much different if I’d stayed? Yes, I thought to myself. I would be Mrs. Andrews for sure. But at what cost? When Dexter had walked away from me, I knew that it was either I skip out or I become something toxic between the two of us. He’d done us a favor, ending it when he had. And I had done us a favor in leaving because I knew he’d come back for me.

  Someone as good as Dexter deserved better than to become a shadow. To be constantly worrying over me, living a ghost of a life. Because I’d always let him down.

  I pulled off my black turtleneck, stretching and placing it on the separator I’d gotten from the little vintage shop around the corner. This apartment was everything I’d ever wanted in life: security, comfort, and beauty. Books piled on the floor and table tops. The large windows wore black heavy curtains. I stretched out on my chaise lounge, pulling the book I’d been reading a few nights ago from beneath it.

  Tonight was different. I sighed, looking at the walls that were covered in the coveted paintings I’d acquired throughout the years, some pieces my own, and others from artists I’d met along the way. I was restless tonight, uneasy in my own routine. I knew I wanted a drink. When days were long and nights were lonely, it was so easy. I didn’t have a roommate and Tim had long since stopped calling to check up on me.

  Each morning, unless I stayed at my studio the night before, I woke up before the sun rose, went running to my studio, and holed up in there after a shower, painting whatever I was feeling. For some reason, whatever I was feeling was fashionable lately and more and more clients were demanding whatever else I could come up with. I wasn’t feeling the pressure—yet. After I was through, I headed home and picked a book from the many piles or watched a movie. Most days, anyway. Sometimes, on a great day, I indulged in an outing. Dates? None worth remembering. Boyfriends? I didn’t want to make the time for them. After having felt the burn of love, it frightened me. What started off as a passionate fire that kindled just right—even if a little too hot at times—ended up leaving me scorched. The bluest of all fires. And I had poor social etiquette, always saying exactly what I was thinking. Men tended to run for the hills after a few minutes with me.

  Dexter hadn’t minded. Dexter loved it.

  I walked through my apartment, whistling the same sad tune. And on the terrible days, my thoughts were full of Dexter Andrews. After all of the time spent away from him, convincing myself it was for the best, I could still remember, with heated skin, the night I’d lost my innocence.

  He’d likely be back home, coming in from a day at the office, some blonde Stepford wife rubbing his shoulders and taking his coat. Two angelic children running in to greet him. All four of them bowing their head in prayer before eating a perfectly moist chicken. Moist. Gross.

  Who makes a perfect chicken? She would, I thought with envy, hating the woman that I was sure existed. I set my book down and headed to my kitchen, opening the fridge. I knew it was as empty as my growling stomach.

  I buttoned up a previously discarded blouse and yanked my coat from the rack I’d also gotten from the vintage shop around the corner. Small treasures.

  When the elevator stopped on my floor, I lifted the first set of doors from the ground and then slammed the second set across. While it was wonderful to live in a loft apartment, the elevator was annoying. I hummed quietly to myself as it made its way down and grunted when I had to open the damn contraption again.

  The city was bustling, and when I flagged a cab down, I sagged with relief before telling the driver where to head. I looked out the window as we made our way. The bright lights dazzled me still, as did the many lives I ran into daily. Everyone was alive here. This was where I should’ve been from the beginning. Not as busy as New York but just as intense.

  I paid and stood outside my favorite restaurant. They’d be busy, but I knew they’d make room for me.

  Sure enough, the maître d’ smiled when he saw me, beckoning me forward, ahead of those waiting for a table.

  “Oh, Ms. Cruz. I thought you might be here tonight. I’ve saved your table.”

  “Thanks, Jorge. You’re the best,” I said with a smile.

  “Anything for that beautiful mural you painted for my daughter’s bedroom. Head back. I’ll send Antonio to your table.”

  I nodded, still smiling. Maybe I couldn’t make the perfect chicken. But in one of the most prominent restaurants, I was a regular. I smiled smugly, having won that battle with the blonde bimbo. I was busy envisioning us circling each other in a boxing ring when I bumped into someone. Apologies came profusely before I looked up.

  The eyes that had seen me naked more than half a decade ago stared back at me. And I felt naked all over again. I crossed my arms over my chest protectively and, damn him because he still knew me, his eyebrows rose.

  “Noa.” He didn’t bother asking where I’d been or even how I was. None of that mattered in that moment. Dexter wasn’t a man of too many words. He dished them out like they were currency, only ever giving you what you needed, only ever affording that. But with me…he’d been the richest man. Full of explanations and words to soothe, words to make my heart ache.

  That he only said my name was both soothing and aching.

  “Dexter Andrews.” I had the awful habit of referring to him by full name in my mind. And in my memories.

  I would never call him Dex. Not for my whole life. Someone that beautiful deserved his entire name, deserved the extra effort it took to say both syllables. The rest of the world knew Dex. I knew Dexter. Dexter Andrews. In ways no one else would.

  “Dex…” a female voice stopped as she noticed he hadn’t moved. She stepped from behind him. She was blonde. My imagination hadn’t done her justice. “Oh, hello.”

  “Is this…” I asked the open-ended question, waiting for him. I wasn’t aiming to be rude although I was executing that like a pro. I wanted to know the situation exactly before I reacted. Being sober taught me that knowledge bred calm reactions in my case.

  “…my business partner. Tammy, this is Noa.” He stepped aside, and when her eyes brightened, I felt self-conscious. There was recognition there. Had he…? I couldn’t let myself hope. Her hand shook mine, my arm feeling like jelly, and I didn’t hear anything she was telling me. His eyes were still on me and I still felt naked.

  “Tammy, would you mind taking the car back to the hotel alone?”

  “Oh, no…you don’t have to, Dexter,” I scolded him. “She doesn’t have to be put out for me. Please.” I chuckled lightly. I felt guilty that I’d hated her for a few long seconds.

  “I’ll call the driver,” she said. “Trust me, Noa. There’s no way this man is leaving your side.” She walked away, her heels clicking in time and her smart suit leaving me feeling underdressed. I typically was at any given time, but I didn’t care until that moment. I looked back at Dexter, whose eyes pierced my shell with too much intensity. His suit was flawless, and while his hair was shorter than it used to be, it still was longer th
an what society would agree to be professional. God, I still felt that zing of his presence.

  “I—would you like to sit?” I asked, gesturing to the empty table a few feet away from us. I was entirely too calm. Like I was dreaming and would wake up in my apartment at any moment.

  “Reservation for one?” When I sat down, I breathed easier until he folded himself directly across from me. For all of the times I reminisced about my time with Dexter, I’d forgotten those eyes…the ones that saw right through my bullshit.

  “No reservation. But, yes. Only myself.” I tucked the loose strands of hair behind my ear.

  “Do you own this place, Blue? Know the owner?” He wasn’t saying anything out of the ordinary. He wasn’t even staring at me inappropriately. And yet I was wearing a perpetual blush.

  “You can’t call me that anymore, Dexter. The blue is gone.” I tugged at my brown braid. I’d grown out of the blue. But somewhere, deep inside, there was the same girl with the fire in her soul and the boy she’d always love.

  “You will forever be Blue, Noa. And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Probably because I’m flustered. We both know I tend to be a little spastic when flustered.” I took a deep breath. “I don’t own this restaurant. I just eat here often. They always let me in, no matter what. So, yes. I know the owner.”

  “Do you always eat here alone?” There was a twinkle in his eye.

  “When did you get to be such a chicken shit?” I asked, bothered that he wouldn’t ask me exactly what he wanted to know.

  He barked out a laugh. It was the same as it had always been but sexier. I knew Dexter the boy. This was Dexter the man.

  “I forgot how raw you were. I missed it. Thought about it often. I guess not having been around it for so long has me unprepared for it.” He leaned forward the way he always did. “Are you single, Noa Cruz, or is there a lucky son-of-a-bitch waiting for you at home? If there is, I’d have to question his sanity, letting you have dinner alone.”

  “What’s wrong with eating by myself?”